Redemption Songs
by Ayezur
Summary: AU, sequel to Invictus. Six years later, the war is over. But the fight hasn't ended - dark plots and old grudges simmer below the surface, and the sweet peace of the new world might be nothing more than pleasant incense masking the rot of of the old. The inhabitants of the Kamiya dojo would rather nurse their wounds, but they may have no choice but to take up arms once more...
1. prologue: they have all been blown out

**A/n: So first I was like, 'I'll post it this weekend!'**

**But then I was like, 'but it's ready now...?'**

**So here you are. Enjoy. This one will be updated monthly, because I have a life now, okay?  
**

* * *

A high-pitched whine split the night, cracking into a thousand glimmering strands of colored light. One burst, than another, than the third – more and more until the stars paled before their glory. A paper lion danced in the street below, its red-gold, silken hide gleaming in the lantern light. Bystanders clapped and cheered it on as it wended through the streets like a curious cat, sniffing and searching out good luck, chasing away demons and angry ghosts with its thundering paws.

Megumi watched the festival from the small window of the high room she and Shinomori had rented. They had been on the continent for nearly a year now, moving from city to city as he chased long-dead leads with the perfect focus of a man who allowed nothing else in his life. Before the war his quest had been vengeance; now he sought redemption with the same cool clarity.

And she… she was here because she had nowhere else to go.

She could have stayed. They would have fought for her, the veterans of the Edo cell (Tokyo, now, as if changing the name could somehow change the thing itself, and maybe it could). But it was easier to go, easier to remove herself from a country that no longer needed the reminder of her presence. She had been _his_ creature, after all. Kanryu's doctor. If they had managed to find his body, perhaps… but they hadn't, and the only proof she had that he was dead was her own conviction that Sir Hiko would never have let him live.

She was all of Kanryu that remained.

So it was only right and natural that the rage of those who remained would focus on her. It was only right and natural that, without Kanryu to put on trial, they would seek vengeance against her. And who was she to say that she did not deserve punishment? She'd had a choice, the same as anyone, and she had chosen to live. She had protected her own existence, bought her life in the blood and suffering of untold thousands and that was sin enough to condemn her.

Sano hadn't understood. But then, she hadn't expected him to.

And she had been selfish to the end. She could have stayed and answered the charges, accepted whatever penance the new government deemed appropriate, allowed them to sweep her into the burning-pile with the rest of the detritus and feed the pyre of the old world with her still-breathing corpse. But she had not. She had run, instead.

She had chosen to survive.

A staccato burst of firecrackers accompanied another round of cheers and shouts from the merrymakers below. Meat glistened and popped on streets vendors' grills, savory scents and sharp spices drifting up to where she sat in her high window, looking down from the shadows. She could see the rooftops from here, watch the slinking profiles of cats and cat-burglars outlined against the dull-shining stars. Eventually one of them would prove to be Shinomori, coming back with another dead-end (in which case he would brood all night) or a live lead (in which case he would sit tense and silent, and catnap a little towards dawn).

She had chosen to survive. And she would. At least until Shinomori had his answer.

After that…

After that, she would see.

* * *

"They will talk to you of peace. They will say that the war is over. They will ask you why you cannot live in peace, why there cannot be fellowship and love between master and slave now that the cannons have ceased their firing, now that the masters have been cast down, now that our chains have been broken. They will ask and you must give them an answer, the only answer. You must say that the war is not yet ended."

Sano sat cross-legged on the cold earth at the edge of the assembly, listening. Shishio's words fell into his heart like rain into half-dead soil, soothing the rage that parched him. Rage was his constant companion, these days. It sat coiled under his heart like a serpent made of stone, weighing down his chest until the air was enough to drown him. It was a shameful thing – he had never been so cold, before the war – and it wasn't as if his was the worst pain to come from those gunpowder days.

That was an important thing to remember. Something to hold on to when the stone serpent threatened to pull him under. He had lost so little. So little, compared to others. But enough and more to force the scales from his eyes.

"Say that the war is not over, brothers and sisters, and know that it is true. The war is not over. We are not free. As long as former masters still walk the halls of power, as long as our children are scorned and shunned for the markings forced upon them, we are not free. As long as they pass laws that steal our labor and our sons and daughters for imagined crimes, as long as they deny us the right of arms to defend ourselves, to defend our families, we are not free. Do not trade the iron bands of slavery for the gossamer of a spider's web. Do not let them gild the bars of the old cage and call it freedom!"

Shishio pounded the heel of his hand into the edge of the podium, marking time with the rough rhythm of his words. A low murmur passed through the crowd, punctuated by the occasional shout of agreement. There were visitors to the settlement tonight; they glanced uneasily at each other and at the crowd of listening freedmen, doubt and growing revelation warring on their face.

The truth would win, Sano knew. It always did.

The war had ended but the war was not over. The new world he had fought so long for – the new world that _she_ had bled for, had sacrificed more than _anyone_ for – was nothing but the old world with a new coat of pain.

"The bosses who whipped us in the fields now whip our families in the streets! The masters who set our quotas now set our tax rate! I say to you: we are not free! We are not free and we will _not_ be free until we have raised up a generation of our _own_ leaders on our _own_ land, until we have the means to _defend_ that land, until the sovereignty_ of_ that land is respected by all! Until we are established as a power in our own right – existing without the sufferance, the _tolerance _of our former masters – my brothers, my sisters, _we are not free!_"

Shishio roared. The crowd roared with him, carried out of themselves, long-buried feelings finally given voice and bound by words for all to see. Sano grinned fiercely and unsurprised as the visitors joined the chorus. Their eyes shone.

The war was ended. The war was not over. And as long as it was not over – as long as the new world was still only a distant dream – he would _fight_.

* * *

The board was changing, slowly but surely, and the change was not natural. There was little doubt of that, after these last dispatches.

He tossed the papers on to his desk, sitting back with an irritated sigh, and pushed the pieces idly around his game board. Chess was a poor representation of politics, all things considered. The rules were too restrictive, the outcomes too certain. A knight could only ever be a knight, only ever move in the way that knights moved, only ever serve one master. Reality was more… fluid. Gō was better, but, like chess, didn't allow for nearly enough factions.

The board was changing, and he had traced the changes to their natural heart. The new capital, once Edo, now Tokyo – now _officially_ the seat of government, no longer lying to itself and the world about its role. Some restoration –

Enough. Vengeance made for strange bedfellows, and he'd never cared much for the Emperor anyhow. Let someone else take the new government to task for _that_ broken promise.

"What do you think, sister?"

He said it out loud, knowing that they were alone. She gave him a long, solemn look, silent as she so often was these days.

He didn't need the words, anyway. He knew her far too well.

"I know, I know." For a moment he lapsed into brooding silence, steepling his fingers just below his nose. "There's no reason to think our paths will cross. Nor is there any reason that they _should_."

"Yes, I'm certain." He snapped it without meaning to, irked by her silence. "He's kept himself out of it as much as a man in his position can."

"Although…" He fiddled with the bridge of his glasses, thoughtful. "The instructor is a different story. But still. Her efforts – intentional or otherwise – have nothing to do with this. I won't seek them out. I have no reason to."

She smiled at him, approving. His answering exhale was not quite a sigh. For a moment he stared vacantly out his window at the glittering summer sea, wondering.

Then he shook his head and dove into his papers. There was much to do.


	2. held in some dreaming state

The air was warm with late summer, a crisp hint of fall teasing the senses with the promise of the winter to come. Kenshin gazed idly out at the courtyard, looking at everything and nothing, and tried to think of what to say.

_Dear Makoto_, he began.

_You say that we must have our own territory, our own government, and that if it is not granted then we will only be enslaved again. I acknowledge the truth in your words – how can I not, with the laws that are even now before the Diet? – and I am ever supportive of your efforts on behalf of our shared cause. But I wonder how you intend to do this thing without another war, which I know that neither you nor I desire. And I wonder, once it is accomplished, if it __can__ be accomplished, how you intend this nation to be governed. Will only freedmen be permitted a place in government? If so, how does that differ from the previous situation? And if not, how does that differ from the current one? Or will you permit only freedmen as citizens – and in that case, what of those who already inhabit the land you choose? For there is no uninhabited place in Japan large enough to support a nation, and I doubt that a foreign country would take kindly to a mob of Japanese freedmen arriving on their shores._

Laughter split the still air. Kenshin looked up from his letter and smiled to see Mariko racing across the yard, her short legs pumping as Yutaro gave chase. His hakama was strapped to her shoulders, flying out behind her like a banner, and Kenshin couldn't help laughing at the frustration on the young man's face.

"Why, you little – "

"Now, now," Kenshin called out. "She doesn't mean any harm."

"Yeah, but – " Yutaro huffed in frustration and gave up, sitting cross-legged on the dirt. "Jeez. Fine. I can wait her out."

Kenshin smiled at that and went back to writing, keeping half an eye on the students. Yutaro began to smile himself, watching her clamber up the old maple tree that stood just inside the dojo gates: after a little while he got up again and helped her. She shrieked with joy, a delighted smile creasing the faded slave-mark on her cheek.

_Forgive me if I do not grasp all the shades of your proposal, but it strikes me that a nation such as you propose must be defined by an unceasing attachment to slavery, rather than freedom from it. For if it is to be a 'freedman's country,' then those within it must think of themselves always as freedmen, and never as __men__. And I cannot help but feel that if I were to live such a life I would lose a great part of myself; I would feel far more enslaved by such a society than I do here, surrounded by good-hearted people – freeborn and freed alike – who seek only to live in peace with one another. _

_My words are harsh. Forgive me for them. But I beg you, old friend, to understand that when you tell me that my choices undermine the cause of liberty my very soul rebels. Of what use is a revolution that does not __end__, that merely slogs on generation after generation, two sides in eternal conflict? I have known bondage and I have known freedom. I have known war and I have known peace. And I tell you: in both cases, I prefer the latter. I was barely reborn into the world as a living, thinking being when I marched to war, and I know that I sometimes seem quite young to you, but I am nearly thirty and have spent half my life in the deepest bondage. I do not have so very many seasons left in this world, and now that I __can__ choose, I choose to spend them __here__, in this place where I was freed. Where I have friendship and kinship, and work to plant the seeds of a hopeful future. I see from your words that you think me selfish, abandoning the cause before the war is truly won, and perhaps I am. But is not selfishness the very opposite of slavery? Why did we fight to be free, if not for the right to pursue our selfish desires?_

Mariko slipped. Yutaro caught her around the waist, huffing at her weight, and she grinned up at him with perfect ease. His answering smile was rueful and resigned, his unmarked face bearing the indignity lightly. Once she was on her feet again she permitted him to remove her improvised cloak, then clung to his leg and buried her face in it. Sighing, he picked her up and swung her onto his shoulders. She clung to him like a monkey, fearless and safe.

The two wandered off for parts unknown. Kenshin watched them go, and the bright day was brighter for it.

_Speaking of the pursuit of selfish desires, the dojo is all aflutter with the news of tournament to be held a month from now. It will be the first in Tokyo to welcome freed and freeborn alike, and therefore the first one in which the Kamiya Kasshin may participate. Other sword-schools that accept freedmen have chosen to simply send only freeborn students to represent them in local tourneys, but Kaoru of course refuses to discriminate against her students in that way. They will be judged by their skill alone or not at all, she informed the other swordmasters, and she has kept the Kasshin out of the circuit as a consequence. So this is quite an occasion! Yahiko will be competing, of course, along with Yutaro, Mayumi, Daisuke and Akiko. And I will not tell you which of them is freed and which are freeborn; if you would send your well-wishes, send them to __all__ her students._

Kenshin's pen faltered. It had been nearly a year since his return, and Kaoru still kept him at a distance. She wasn't unkind – it wasn't her nature – but the easy closeness he'd dreamed of and the affection that he'd read in her letters was gone as if it had never been. And maybe it hadn't. Maybe he had been wrong.

Maybe it had only ever been kindness, and his dreams had only ever been that.

Biting his lip, he pushed the thought away.

_As for Kaoru, the tournament is not meant for swordmasters or teachers, only students, so she will only participate in some opening exhibitions._

_I wish you would not judge her quite so harshly, Makoto. She did not seek out the position that found herself in, nor did she exploit it when it came to her. She has worked as hard as any of us to make a new world, and in her own way she is quite as uncompromising as you. I wish you would come to Tokyo; I miss you, and I think that if you only met her and saw what she and I are building here you would find many of your fears relieved. You and Yumi both – I know travel is difficult in wintertime, but surely things are not so busy that you cannot visit in the spring?_

"Mr. Himura?"

Kenshin looked up again. Soujiro was standing at the edge of the porch, an empty basket under his arms.

"I was going to start on dinner. What do you think I should pick?"

"Oh." Kenshin thought for a moment. "The cucumbers, maybe? Anything but squash, really. Yahiko swears that if we eat any more of it we're going to turn _into_ squashes, and I don't disagree."

"But there's so _much_ of it!" The corners of Soujiro's eyes crinkled in his habitual grin. A true one, Kenshin knew; he'd known the boy too long to be fooled by his false smiles. It was an old habit, smiling in the face of pain, and it brought Soujiro comfort. Therefore it went unremarked, for all it sometimes led to misunderstandings.

There was no one in Japan who did not bear scars, after all.

"Maybe we can sell some at market," Kenshin suggested, thinking over the last month's income. "It might not fetch much, but everything helps. I'll talk to – no, you should talk to Kaoru about it. Or Yahiko, if you can't catch up with her."

"All right."

Soujiro adjusted his burden and moved on. Kenshin sighed and went back to his letter, determined to end on a cheerful note.

_You will be pleased to know that Soujiro has arrived safely. I am honored that he has chosen to entrust himself to the Kasshin school, and even more so that you gave your blessing. I take it as a sign that you still have __some__ faith in me, at least._

_I tease too much, old friend. I know the depths of your faith. I also know how much you worry, with or without reason._

_Enough of this. Our young competitors have been training at all hour, on top of their regular classes and chores. I'm amazed they find the time to sleep! One can hardly walk across the yard without tripping over someone practicing their sword-swings, and Mrs. Nakamura – you will remember her from my earlier letters – has begun sewing new uniforms for our representatives. If this goes well, it will be an almighty boon to the school and with any luck will draw in more students. Which will please Yahiko. He hopes that in a few years' time there might be enough students to warrant founding a second dojo, which he hopes to run. He has the heart for it, heaven knows, and I have no doubt he'll gain the full measure of necessary skill by the time it's feasible. As for myself – well, you know too well by now how much Kaoru's happiness means to me, but more than that I pray that the Kasshin will grow in honor and reputation, and that its philosophy – the sword the protects, the blade that sustains – might spread ever further. It is a noble school, and a noble dream. Even my own teacher admitted as much, though he'll deny it to his dying day._

_My best wishes are with you, always._

_Ever your friend,_

_Kenshin Himura_

Kenshin folded the letter and sealed it, stretching as he stood with the envelope in hand. His letter wasn't the only one waiting to be mailed; he'd grab the others and go down to the post office himself. The sooner they got underway, the sooner they'd reach their destination.

It was the work of only a few minutes to gather the letters from their writers, exchanging a few words of thanks and think-nothing-of-it. Mrs. Nakamura was writing to her sister in Kyoto. Mr. Tamaka had an ongoing correspondence with a foreigner who had come to aid in the war effort. None of the children had anyone to write to – not yet – which left only…

Kenshin hesitated before he knocked on the training hall door. Kaoru hadn't been in the house, which meant that she would be here. If she was home at all. She hadn't always been, lately; she had been going out early and staying out late, coming home only for lessons and eating at the clinic or the Akabeko. And when she was at home she was distant and distracted, absent even in her smiles. The only times that she did seem fully herself was when she taught, and even then there was a certain reservation.

He didn't remember her being that way, before. But – he hadn't been entirely himself.

Maybe he'd been wrong.

"Come in," Kaoru called from inside the hall. Kenshin opened the door, bowing his reverence to the sacred space.

"Kenshin." Kaoru greeted him with small nod. "Can I help you?"

He slid the door open a bit further. "I'm making a run down to the post office before dinner. Do you need anything mailed?"

"No, not right now. Thank you for offering, though."

She said it with perfect courtesy, polite and smiling, and her eyes were shuttered as they always were when she looked at him. He paused, wanting to say more and not knowing how. It wasn't as if he hadn't tried, so many times. Too many times. Awkward, fumbling conversations that started in emptiness and went nowhere as the words that he'd committed so easily to paper shriveled on his tongue and died unspoken.

Kaoru looked at him, unblinking.

"Is there anything else?"

"…no," he said. "That's all. See you at dinner."

Another nod. She went back to her meditations. Kenshin closed the door, sighing, and headed towards town.

She probably wouldn't be at dinner tonight.

* * *

The post office was near closing and crowded with people. Kenshin smiled as he entered, hiding the sudden shriek of worry in his bones at the closeness and lack of easy exits. Some of his neighbors smiled in greeting. Others frowned and looked away, but not before their eyes skidded nervously over the brand on his cheek. Many freedmen and women chose to cover theirs with cosmetics, while a few – a very few – enhanced them with accessories. Kenshin did neither. He let it be, deep and faded, a reminder of what he no longer was. And that he had no reason to be ashamed.

The man behind the counter greeted him politely when he stepped up, faltering when he caught sight of Kenshin's marked cheek. His smile did not fade – he was too professional for that, the habits of courtesy towards paying customers too ingrained – but there was a stretched quality in it, as though he were only a second away from baring his teeth.

Kenshin ignored it and laid his letters on the counter. The employee took them with deliberate grace and told him the price. Kenshin paid it, ignoring the faint strain of skepticism in the man's voice. Many freed slaves were poor, and that wasn't their fault, but he couldn't blame the man for putting his shop's needs first.

The counterman made a show of inspecting each coin for flaws and forgeries, one that no other customer had been subjected to. Kenshin's jaw tensed; he kept his breathing even, determined not to be upset. There was little point, after all. No one would look kindly on him for causing a scene.

Coins inspected to his satisfaction, the man took the letters and handed them to his assistant, who shot Kenshin an apologetic look as he spirited them off to be mailed. Kenshin nodded, gifting the youngster a genuine smile.

There were still people in Japan who believed in the old ways, who would believe in them until their dying day, and there wasn't much to be done about it either. After all, they hadn't been old for very long. Only six years had passed since the start of the war, not even a generation. It was important not to expect too much.

And they wouldn't matter, in the long run. However many people clung to the past in fear, there would always be as many and more racing forward to see what the future held.

That mattered. That was worth holding on to.

So he left the post office with a light heart and his head held high. At least until he got home and saw the training hall standing open and Kaoru's shoes gone from the entryway.

As he'd thought. She wouldn't be home for dinner.

* * *

The memorial park was the only place Kaoru found any peace, these days.

There was a terrible irony to it: this lush green park, with its hydrangeas and creeping wisteria (but not roses, _never _roses) fed by the blood of soldiers and slaves, was the one place in the city where the constant tension in her bones eased, if only for a little while. The landscape echoed with the memory of gunfire and the quiet murmurs of visitors paying their respects, and it soothed her to know that _something_ remembered what had passed here. Even if the world forgot, replanted the ground and covered the wounds with water and tall trees, the land remembered. Someone had to.

The new government had flooded the old slave pens and stocked the ensuing pond with carp and lily pads. Turtles sunned themselves on artistically-placed rocks, silent and serene; irises bloomed along the edges in riots of yellow-flecked purple and if people whispered that on moonless nights you could hear the cries of the dead echoing from the cool depths then that was only right. Water would purify the place, in time. She had to believe. Water would make it clean again.

There were too many named and nameless dead to give them graves, so the city had erected a small gravestone in the heart of what had once been the manor's foundations. It was granite, polished smooth and mirror-bright, and had no inscription. No one needed to be told who it was for. At first it had been piled high with grave-offerings, nearly buried under flowers and incense and small round oranges. These days, though, the tide of blood-guilt had stemmed somewhat. Only a few discreet sacrifices remained.

She had brought flowers too, in the early days. Daisies and peonies. Never roses.

Now she brought only herself.

There was a place at the edge of the water where she liked to go. A maple tree stood tall at her back, casting the green waters black with its shadow, and the carp roiled around the great boulder where she sat and sometimes fed them. Other times she only sat, silent, and watched the surface ripple in the quick, teasing breezes that were all the tall stone walls surrounding the place would admit. They'd kept the walls and the breach blown in them, shattered stone scorched black with powder. Kaoru wasn't sure why, exactly, when the city had tried so hard to erase the rest. But she preferred it.

She'd brought a few riceballs on the walk down, a poor substitute for the dinner she was missing. Most of them were going to the fish. She didn't have much of an appetite, these days.

A bright orange monster – as long as her arm and nearly twice as thick – flashed subtle gold in the shadows as it bullied its way through the frenzy, snapping up more than its share. Shenearly smiled.

"Greedy things, aren't they?"

Kaoru nearly dropped her dinner entirely. She whipped her head around, one hand coming down hard on the rock to brace herself. It scraped against her palm, not quite drawing blood.

"I'm sorry," said that man behind her, with apparent sincerity. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's all right." She said it automatically, shifting around on her knees to face him. The stone caught and tore at her skirts. "I wasn't paying attention. Can I help you?"

Not that help was owed, but the habits of a lifetime were hard to break.

The man studied her for a moment. She studied him right back. He was tall and slender, neatly dressed in the European fashion, though his features showed him to be Japanese. Except for his eyes, which were blue: almost _too_ blue, glinting like a knife blade behind tinted glasses. And his hair. It was short, tidy, and white as sun-bleached bone, clipped high above his ears. A tailored suit-jacket rested on his shoulders.

"I was having some trouble finding the memorial," he said finally. "Would you be so kind as to point me in the right direction?"

"Oh. Yes." Kaoru got to her feet. "Let me show you, actually. It can be a little hard to find."

The whole park was a memorial, of sorts, but when people asked for _the memorial_ they meant the blank and polished headstone. She noticed as she stood that he held a bucket in one hand, slightly hidden behind his back. The end of a dipper rested against the rim, next to a bundle of chrysanthemums.

Too many people had been taken by the slave trade, before and after the war, and many of them were unknown, unnamed, buried without rite or ritual. That was why the headstone had no name. He would not be the first to mourn there for someone who had no other grave.

"This way."

She started down the path, and he followed.

The man gave her a nod and murmured thanks before he knelt to pay his respects to the unmarked stone. And she should have left then, but she didn't; she couldn't say why, except that it didn't seem right. So she waited.

He prayed for a long time before he poured a dipperful of water over the stone, reverently, as if washing a body for cremation. The same reverence lingered as he took the chrysanthemums and scattered them carefully over the small steps at the foot of the stone, clasping his hands together one last time when he was done. Then he stood.

"Thank you," he said, simply.

"It's no trouble." And then, her curiosity overcoming her, "May I ask…?"

He was well-dressed, probably well-off, and few of those who came to pay tribute these days were. In the beginning all sorts had come by both to ease their consciences and in honest grief, but since the end of the war most of the visitors had been freedmen or women mourning some lost friend or relative, and the poverty that too many of them lived in was etched in their faces.

There was none of that strain in his. There were lines of thought and focus, stress wrinkling the skin between his eyes, but none of that haggard worry. And he had no slave-brand, at least none that she could see – though she supposed that his long sleeves could conceal a pleasure-house tattoo.

He raised an eyebrow; an apology sprang unspoken to her lips as he inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her question.

"My sister."

"I'm sorry." She nodded once, not quite a bow, in recognition of his loss.

"And you?"

A fair question. She colored slightly, not certain how to respond.

"…no one." No dead, at least. "I was here," she said, a little too quickly. "In the first battle. When Kanryu was killed."

It had been easier to hold to that fiction than explain why they had let Kanryu flee, or her conviction that Mr. Hiko had ended him afterwards. That he had been defeated that morning, in that dank stone cellar, and the death of his body had been only an afterthought.

"Ah." Now he gave her another assessing look, something dawning in his eyes – as if he was putting something together. "May I ask your name?"

"Kaoru." She stifled the sudden, inexplicable urge to lie. Something in the way he was looking at her… "Kaoru Kamiya."

"Of the Kamiya Kasshin?"

She nodded. He blinked, slowly, like a cat who'd just seen something of interest moving in the underbrush.

"I've heard your name before." He extended his hand, then seemed to catch himself and bowed instead. "Forgive my rudeness. My name is Enishi Yukishiro."

Kaoru bowed back. "A pleasure to meet you."

It was automatic and unfelt. She thought he smirked, but it was gone too quickly for her to be sure. His name was familiar, somehow: she couldn't quite place it. It carried bad memories.

"I think I've heard your name, too. Have we met…?"

The wind rustled in the trees, whispering. For a moment his face went completely blank. Then he shrugged, as if it was nothing.

"I occupy a minor position in the new government. Perhaps I was mentioned in a news article. Much like yourself." His voice was pointed.

Kaoru couldn't quite suppress a wince. She hadn't known, when the young woman from the freedman's paper had come by, how seriously her statements would be taken. So she'd told the truth – but no, that wasn't fair. She would have said the same things even if she _had_ known that it would matter to so many people. And in hindsight, she should have known. She had been there, at the end that had been the beginning. She had borne witness: she had been, in her own small way, important to the changing of the tide. Maybe she just hadn't wanted to face it.

It wouldn't be the first time, after all.

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," she said finally, raising her chin a little. "The freedmen and women of Japan had everything taken from them. It isn't enough to just give them their freedom. We have to help them find their way in society, too, otherwise nothing's really changed."

Another strange flash that was almost a smirk, a quirk of the lips that vanished before she could take it in.

"I don't disagree," he said, mildly enough, and bowed again. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Kamiya, but I was only stopping by for a moment on my way to attend to some other business. If you'll excuse me?"

"Of course." She bowed her farewell. "I hope your business goes well."

An easy script, ingrained courtesy. Nothing to be concerned about. So why did she feel so dizzy?

"As do I," he said gravely, and left.

She was very careful not to watch him go.

* * *

Yahiko was good at not noticing things.

When he'd been on the streets he hadn't noticed the wan, scared look in young girls' faces as they were led away by much older men, because he was samurai and the son of samurai (and always _would_ be, no matter how far he fell; that was the whole point of the thing) and if he'd noticed then he would have had to _do_ something about it, and he was little more than skin and bones himself so what _could_ he do?

He hadn't noticed how much of his dishonorable earnings had found its way into his masters' pockets (always much, much more than they had agreed on, leaving him barely enough to survive on so that he'd have to buy a meal on credit, add to the debt that he never quite managed to pay) because if he had then he'd have had to do something about it, and he was so small.

He hadn't noticed the children much younger than himself begging in the streets, because what could he do except give them what he had, the shame and the risk of thievery for men who did not care if you lived or died and sold you into living death when you slipped up too many times, and maybe that was better than the gutter but how could he live knowing that he'd done that do them and how could he live giving away any of the not-nearly-enough that he had?

Now that he was older, he didn't notice the subtle sneers when he walked into a dojo, wearing his thief-marks openly. He didn't notice how visiting freeborn students would hit a little too hard, push a little too far when he set them against _his_ students and those students had scars on their faces. He didn't notice the sudden rise in whispers when Kaoru visited the Akabeko, and he didn't notice the flashes of offended rage in unmarked faces doing menial labor when freedmen in fine clothing walked by, and he _definitely_ didn't notice the way Kaoru's back stiffened when Kenshin spoke to her, or the confusion and loss in Kenshin's eyes.

Yahiko was _good_ at not noticing things. Especially things he couldn't do anything about. Or wouldn't. He was never sure – it was either cowardice or common sense. He wanted it to be common sense, but he'd seen with his own eyes the price that justice demanded. Saw it still, in Kaoru's weary glances and slumped shoulders, in the students' aching shyness or trembling defiance.

Maybe he was just too afraid to pay it.

But the fact remained; he was good at not noticing things, and one of the things he was careful not to notice, these days, was how often Kaoru was away. She never missed a lesson, never shirked her responsibilities, so what could he say about it?

What could he do, except carry on?

"Senior?"

Yahiko blinked, startled out of his reverie, and looked down. Buntaro was tugging at his pants, an angry frown creasing his mouth as he struggled not to cry.

"What's wrong?" He bent down, bringing himself closer to the little boy's level.

"Ball went up!" Buntaro's lower lip trembled.

"That so?" It was easy to translate his concern, especially when Yahiko glanced up and saw a bright paper ball caught in the branches of one of the twin cherry trees on the dojo grounds. "Well, let's see what we can do about that."

Buntaro held close to his leg as Yahiko sauntered over to the tree, hands in his pockets, and contemplated the situation. It wasn't stuck _that_ high, but this particular tree was harder to climb than the old maple or its twin on the other side of the grounds, and Buntaro was a timid little runt. He was getting stronger every day, but apparently the tree had been a bit much for him: fresh scrapes marked the trunk where he'd tried, without any success, the clamber up the trunk and get it down.

"Bit high up, isn't it?" Yahiko said, mindful of the boy's dignity. Buntaro swallowed and sniffed, nodding his head. "Good thing I'm so tall, huh?"

Yahiko took his wooden sword off his back and extended it up towards where the paper ball trembled in light breeze. A quick, careful flick and it was loose, floating down to Buntaro's waiting hands. The boy caught it, a trembling smile breaking through the stormclouds on his face.

"There we go," Yahiko said. "Ball went up, ball came down."

"Thank you!" Buntaro grinned up at him, gap-toothed and gummy, then scampered off on some urgent child's errand. Hopefully one that didn't involve getting anything else caught in trees. Yahiko watched him go, sucking in a breath when he tripped and fell over some invisible obstacle. But Buntaro picked himself without further tears and pelted around the corner of the house, out of sight. Yahiko relaxed.

"Yahiko?"

Yahiko turned to see Kenshin standing on the porch.

"Yeah?"

"Have you see Kaoru?" There was that worry in Kenshin's eyes, the worry that Yahiko was so careful not to notice. What could he do about it, if he did? He'd been an outsider to their bond. Everyone had. Whatever secret it was that had Kaoru so edgy, whatever strange intimacy had passed between them when Kenshin had been not fully himself… it wasn't anything he'd been privy to.

There was nothing he could do.

"No." Yahiko shook his head. "Sorry."

"Oh." Kenshin seemed to sigh. "It's going to be time for dinner, soon."

"Yeah," Yahiko said, marking the sun where it stood. "Look, she'll probably go to the Akabeko or something," he said, knowing it for a lie. Kaoru never went there without company these days. The whispers upset her too much. "Maybe Tae sent Tsubame up to ask her over."

Kenshin gave him a look, knowing it for a lie. If Tsubame had come over, even on an errand, Yahiko would have seen her and there would be no _maybe_ about it.

"I'm sure it's something like that," Kenshin said vaguely, accepting the falsehood and the spirit in which it was told. It wasn't as if there was anything _he_ could do about it, either. They were equally helpless in this; the more they'd tried, the more tight-locked Kaoru had become. So now they didn't try.

There was nothing they could do.

"Want me to start rounding up the kids?" Yahiko offered, somewhat feebly. Kenshin shook his head.

"I'll do it. Soujiro might need some help, though."

"Got it." Yahiko nodded and headed for the kitchens.

* * *

Kaoru didn't come back until after sunset, just before full dark. The shadows had stretched long and elastic by the time Yahiko saw her slip through the gates with a vague sense of furtive shame, like a cat who knows that it's been gone too long and the family is worried.

"Evening," he said, though he should have ignored her. Let her late arrival go, as he had so many times previously – as he and Kenshin both had. "Welcome back."

Kaoru stopped.

"…I'm home," she said, too softly.

"You missed dinner, but I think there's some leftovers keeping warm." It was hard to keep anger from tinging his voice, so he didn't try. "The kids missed you."

"I ate at the Akabeko," she lied. She'd gotten good at lying, much better than she'd been six years ago, but Yahiko _knew_ her. She could no more fool him than he could her. "Have they gone to bed already?"

"Yeah." He shifted, shrugging his bamboo sword into a more comfortable position. "You'll have to see them tomorrow, at lessons."

"I thought you did the morning classes on Fridays?"

"Something came up." Nothing had – but he was angry, angry that she was missing, angry that she was pulling away and he didn't want to be. This was all he could do.

"And we can't skip lessons, not so close to the tournament. Yes, I understand."

"All right, then." And then, a bit too slowly. "Thanks."

She inclined her head. "Is there anything else I should know about?"

_Kenshin is worried_, he wanted to say. _I'm worried. Tae's worried, Tsubame's worried, the doc's worried Everyone is. Do you really think we haven't noticed? That we don't care? Why won't you talk to us?_

"No," he said, because there was nothing else to say. "That's all."

"Good night, then."

"Night."

And that was that. She walked into the house without further word or acknowledgement and Yahiko sighed, turning towards the well to rinse himself off before bed –

"Good evening," Kenshin said quietly. Yahiko turned back and saw what he'd known he would see: Kenshin standing on the porch and Kaoru frozen just at the steps, her shoes halfway off her feet.

After a too-long moment, she finished sliding out of them and stepped up on to the porch. Kenshin gave way, responding to her movements with practiced ease. Yahiko saw her fists clench tight, just for a moment.

"I was just heading to bed," she said, when the silence became too much to bear. Kenshin swallowed.

"Yes. Of course." He stepped back further. "Sleep well."

"And you."

Then Kaoru was gone. Kenshin looked helplessly at Yahiko. Yahiko looked back. There was nothing he could say, not _it's not your fault_ because maybe it was. Kaoru had been better before Kenshin had come back. Not quite as she was before the war, but better. And he couldn't say _it is your fault_ because that would be cruel and wrong to say, because this was Kenshin's home, too – Kaoru had _promised_ – and because it didn't make _sense_.

Nothing made sense anymore. Like a dream where everything is just a little bit off, a few shades to the left of normal.

Kenshin looked helplessly at him. Yahiko returned the look, and a whole ocean of conversation passed between them. They'd had it so many times thst they didn't need words anymore.

"…night, Kenshin."

"Good night, Yahiko."

And that was that. Another day done, he thought, shivering under a deluge of water, still cool from the well. Another day just like every day since Kenshin had returned, full of Kaoru's secrets and the smothering, silent tension that could almost, if you weren't looking hard enough, be mistaken for peace.

Sooner or later, something was going to give.

When Yahiko slept that night, he dreamed of stormclouds building.


	3. light and paper thin

"Yukishiro!" Tachibana greeted Enishi warmly, an easy smile flitting across his face as he stood and gestured for him to sit. His hands moved broadly, expansive and welcoming. Enishi's greeting was more restrained. It was the most he was able to muster, under the circumstances, but Tachibana paid it no mind. As Enishi had known he would; Tachibana had known him for a long time.

"It's good to see you," Enishi said, settling into the stiff western chair. The little café was one of the handful of 'western-style' teahouses that had sprung up in the new capital, mostly around the Diet and the other government buildings. Raised tables and chairs, outdoor seating under striped silk awnings, and tiny cups of strong coffee offered alongside the more traditional teas. This one – the First Spring Blossoms – had just about mastered the art of the western pastry, which made it Tachibana's particular favorite. He'd always had a sweet tooth.

"How are things?"

"Oh, ticking along." Tachibana dismissed the question with an idle wave of his hand, nodding to a waitress. "What can I get you?"

"It's not necessary. I'll pay."

"Nonsense! I haven't seen you in what, a year and a half? The least I can do is stand you a coffee. Black, wasn't it?"

"Please."

The coffee arrived, accompanied by a crumbling attempt at a madeleine. The sweetness melted on Enishi's tongue like a kiss. He chased it away with a long, bitter draught. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, two friends chatting in the oppressive heat of a late Tokyo summer. Nothing unusual here.

"I hear you're working for Military Affairs, these days?" Enishi asked, when the air had been sufficiently cleared. Tachibana made a face.

"Yes, under Itome. Secretary to an undersecretary. But it's a start, don't you think? And you're in the Home Office, as I recall. Special assignment?"

"Aren't I always?" Enishi said with a wryness he did not feel, anticipating the next move.

"Well, no point using a dagger as an arrow, isn't that how Motokawa put it back in the day? The right tool for the right job." Tachibana looked smug as he said it, his assumptions confirmed. Correctly, in this case. Enishi was currently on special assignment for the Ministry of Home Affairs, a rather transparent euphemism for domestic spying. There was a certain irony in it. Pretending to be a spy in order to _be_ a spy, faking loyalty to country instead of cause, to the future and not the unshriven past…

The black coffee swirled in the paper-thin china. For a moment he glimpsed his sister in the shimmering surface. Her eyes were dark, unreadable; then she shifted and blurred, and her black eyes were suddenly blue and wary, her chin newly pointed and raised in uncertain defiance.

Kamiya.

He tilted his cup, shattering the vision, and attended to his purpose. Tachibana had received his confirmation and doubtless felt himself clever for realizing the obvious. Now was a good time to move.

"I got a look at the budget proposal for next fiscal year. It's a bit strange, don't you think?"

"How do you mean?" Tachibana blinked, naïve, and squinted in the light. Enishi didn't doubt that he was sincere. Tachibana had never been bright, but he was loyal. A true samurai, faithful unto death and incapable of questioning his superiors. Not a clever thing to be, in this half-born world.

"The military's asking for a rather large allocation," Enishi said, keeping it light. Just gossip. Shop talk between two old government hands. Nothing to see here. "They want domestic spending cut for it?"

"Oh, that." Tachibana rolled his eyes. "You should hear the Freedom Party shriek over it! I know, I know," he said, raising his hand to stave off the objection he expected to hear without checking to see if it was forthcoming. "They have Katsura's deathbed endorsement and all the rest of the old idealists behind them. But they're just not being _practical_."

"Oh?"

"Look, it's not like we didn't _try_," Tachibana continued, warming to his subject. "But the unrest is getting worse! There was a riot in Kyoto last week, did you hear? The police calmed it down before any serious damage was done, thank god, but some very valuable property was destroyed. A few people were injured. And all because of the freedmen's movement."

"I wasn't aware they were involved," Enishi said, mildly. "Didn't it start in one of the freeborn neighborhoods?"

"Because of anger over the aid priorities, yes. Freedmen and their families are given special consideration over the freeborn. It makes for bad blood. And honestly, with the foreign situation as it is, we can't afford to keep focusing on minor domestic issues. They're free, now, they have the same chance as anyone. Anything else is a gift, and we've already been more than generous."

"I see." Enishi sipped his coffee. A solid play, traditional but nonetheless effective. Starve the dogs and sooner or later they would turn on each other in a snarling mass of fangs and flying fur. From that chaos, opportunity would rise. "I haven't been focusing much on foreign affairs, lately," he lied,

"America's been making noises. We've finally managed to force a revision of the treaties and they don't like losing their foothold out here, let me tell you. Britain wants them kept out, so they're on our side, for now – though that may change if the Freedom Party doesn't stop pushing for sanctions over the sugar plantations. The rest of Europe's waiting to see what happens."

"And China?"

Tachibana shrugged. "They have their own problems. Between the British and the rebels, they're stretched too thin to care about us."

"That's a relief, at least." It was good to have some confirmation of what he'd expected – that he'd judge the purpose behind the shifts in play correctly, at least on the domestic side. China, though…

China would be difficult. All signs pointed towards the mainland as a staging-ground for what was increasingly resembling a nascent coup, and he had very few connections there. He needed insight; Qing Yao's latest reports had been frustratingly unclear. Not her fault. The situation was always difficult in China. A few free provinces in the mountains did not a new nation make, but try telling that to the rebellion's leadership.

She did what she could, but her cause came first. It was something Enishi could understand. Still, the lack of firsthand information from Shanghai was troubling: most of the slave-masters who had fled Japan during the war had settled there, and the gods alone knew what that nest of vipers had managed to cook up.

"It could be worse," Tachibana said in agreement. "But it's not good, either. We need that funding."

"I can see how difficult it is," Enishi said, and turned the conversation towards more pleasant topics, such as courtship. Tachibana's mother had been sending him out on matchmaking dates since he'd been appointed to his new position, and one of them had finally borne fruit. Tachibana was effusive in his praise. Enishi let him talk, responding with interested noises at the appropriate intervals as his mind wandered.

Tomoe's face. Kamiya's face. His sister hadn't wanted him to seek her out – or _him_, the boy who'd led her to her death (a man full grown now). And it didn't serve his purpose here, so he hadn't. It had been an accident, and perhaps that was why his sister seemed to approve. Or at least, she didn't disapprove.

Himura was a known quantity. The role he'd played was understood, and his fate decided, but Kamiya…

She was still an unknown. She'd kept her head down during the war, her reputation growing by word-of-mouth, and he'd assumed based on her history that she was precisely what she appeared to be. A kind, charitable woman and a true believer, acting solely out of her own conviction, without concern for the game. A bit of a wild card, but not terribly so: she could be relied upon to react in certain ways, and the corner of the board that she could affect was vanishingly small in the scheme of things.

And then she'd given that interview.

It was the first and so far only time she'd made any public statement. The reporter from the Daily Free News had asked some very pointed questions, and Kamiya's answers had been in line with some of the most radical thinkers in the abolitionist movement. Reparations, universal suffrage, debt forgiveness… it had been a minor coup, given the role she'd played in the war and the sheer number of people she'd helped. Such things did not go unnoticed… and Himura, an object of curiosity wherever he went, had not been shy about the role she'd played in _his_ story.

Yet he'd never been able to find any association between her and the radical leadership. As far as he could tell, she'd arrived at these views on her own. She was, and remained, independent of any political party and without any particular influence in the game.

It was an anomaly and he'd noted it as such, filing it away in case it became useful one day.

Perhaps it was useful now?

He put the question silently to his sister, and she said nothing. Only looked at him, grave and calm.

This was his choice to make, then.

Her eyes had been a remarkable shade of blue. Like his own – no, darker. More intense.

He had not come to Tokyo to seek her out, or solve her riddle. But he had found her nonetheless, and perhaps that was fate. If he happened to cross paths with her again… well. It was a foolish man who ignored the proddings of the universe.

If they happened to find each other again, there could be no harm in speaking with her.

* * *

"All right, all right, hold still." Kenshin craned his neck, counting silently under his breath as the children milled excitedly in the courtyard. One, two, three, four, five, six…

"Where's Suzume?"

"Still looking for her ribbon," Mayumi reported with a toss of her head and an exasperated roll of her eyes. "She says she won't go without it."

Suzume had several ribbons, but only one had been a gift from Kaoru – the blue silk one that had matched her eyes – and therefore only one was _the_ ribbon. Suzume wore it for luck, and on special occasions. Which, Kenshin supposed, a trip to the theatre qualified as. Especially for a nine-year-old girl.

_Almost ten!_ he could hear her protesting, and smiled.

"We're going to be late if she takes much longer," Soujiro commented, straightening Buntaro's shirt. "Shall I help her find it?"

"Please." Kenshin nodded his thanks. Soujiro stood, brushing off his knees, and went inside. Kaoru and Yahiko passed him as they came out. Kenshin gave them a carefully casual glance, trying not to let his eyes linger on Kaoru. Trying not to let her see his worry.

"Everyone ready?" Yahiko asked, absently scooping up Mariko to rest on his shoulders. She squealed in delight, grabbing at his hair, and he only winced a little.

"Not yet." Kenshin could see Kaoru in the corner of his eye, standing slightly apart from the group. "Suzume's looking for her ribbon. Soujiro went to help her."

"Uncle, uncle." Buntaro tugged at Kenshin's pants, his small face creased in misery. "_Itches_."

"Let me see, then."

He crouched down to fuss at the little boy's clothing, grateful for the distraction. Kaoru so rarely went out these days. She'd almost declined this trip as well, except that the tickets had been a gift from Tae. So she'd agreed to go, though he didn't doubt that the fact that the invitation was for _everyone_ played a large part in that.

He'd tried inviting her places before, just the two of them. She always had an excuse. Even if it was only a quick run down to the market for extra tofu.

It didn't matter, he told himself as he arranged Buntaro's clothing. The important thing was that she was getting out in public, doing something fun with her family. Small steps, that was the trick; it had taken _him_ months to get to the point where he could even speak easily, after all. There was no point pushing her faster than she was willing to go.

_He'd_ had good reason, though, some dark corner of his mind muttered rebelliously. _Kaoru_ had never –

Kenshin forced the thought back, swallowing shame. Whatever Kaoru was going through had a different cause than his own struggles. That didn't make them less painful. No one had emerged from the war unscarred, and everyone bore those injuries differently. It was important to remember that.

Especially now, when he could feel her eyes on him, that complicated absence ringing in her gaze. He didn't look up to meet them.

It might scare her off.

"We're back!" Soujiro announced cheerfully, emerging from the house with Suzume's hand clasped in his. Suzume was beaming, Kaoru's ribbon tied neatly in her hair. "Everyone ready?"

"I think so." Kenshin gave Buntaro's clothing one last tug. "Better now, li'l Bun?"

"Bun_taro_," he insisted, pouting.

"Buntaro, yes. I'm sorry." The boy had decided, recently, that he was too old for baby names. Which, at all of five years old, he wasn't – but it was helping him feel a little more confident, and that was a fine thing.

Kenshin stood and made a final count. Everyone going was present – Mr. Tanaka and Mrs. Nakamura had declined, saying that it would be nice to have the house to themselves for a while – and everyone present was ready to go. Ribbons found, clothing straightened, odds and ends safely stowed in various bags and pockets.

No point delaying.

"Okay! Let's get going then, shall we?"

The mob straggled out from the gates, the older children watching the younger while Kenshin kept an eye on all of them. Kaoru hung back as they passed through and Yahiko stayed with her, catching her easily up in conversation with himself and Soujiro. Mostly, Kenshin knew, to make sure she didn't have second thoughts halfway to the theatre.

Kenshin didn't bother trying to join in.

* * *

The servant onstage recoiled, singing his horror at what he'd seen in his master's bedroom. The narrator stepped forward, keening out a summary of the play thus far – the promise between the student and the maiden, the aunt's treachery, the joyful rediscovery of each other, and the shock of the servant's discovery: that the maiden was indeed dead, and the student had been embracing a corpse all these long nights. It ended with a plaintive cry for mercy, begging the gods to show pity to these two lovers, whose feelings for each other endured beyond death and dared to violate heaven's laws.

Then the act was over. The audience shuffled and muttered, people rising to their feet for a walk or taking out lunchboxes where they sat and digging into their dinners. Kenshin shifted, gently lifting Buntaro and Mariko from where they'd fallen asleep on his lap.

"Does anyone want anything?" he asked.

"You heading to the snack stands?" Yahiko looked up from where he was busy helping Soujiro get their own lunchboxes distributed.

"I thought I might." Kenshin shrugged. "It would be nice to have some sweets, don't you think?"

"There was a stand selling a variety pack," Soujiro suggested. "That might be best."

"That sounds good." Kenshin stood. "Kaoru, do you – "

But when he turned to where she had been sitting, she wasn't there. Yahiko gave Kenshin a helpless look.

"I think she went to the bathroom," he said, somewhat feebly. Kenshin smiled, or at any rate managed to get the corners of his mouth to turn up. It wouldn't do any good to worry the younger students; they already had the sense that something was wrong, though so far Kenshin and Yahiko had managed to keep most of it from them. The war had touched them deeply enough as it was. There was no need to give them any more adult fears to grapple with.

"I hope she doesn't miss the opening of the next act," Kenshin said lightly. "Otherwise she'll be confused."

"Maybe you should keep an eye out for her?" Soujiro suggested it with perfect innocence, his eyes too-pleasantly devoid of insinuation. Which generally meant that he knew exactly what was going on.

"I'll try." Kenshin said it slowly, reluctantly. It had been about a month since the last time he or Yahiko had seriously tried to pull Kaoru out of her shell. Maybe it was time… and probably it was futile, but they had to keep trying. The alternative was just – letting her go – and the thought of_ that_ was like ice in his veins.

"If I see her," he said, more firmly, "I'll make sure she gets back in time."

Yahiko gave him an understanding look.

"Good luck," he said, and nothing more.

* * *

The lobby was crowded with people chattering and calling to snack vendors, moving briskly to and from their various destinations. Kenshin took a deep, slow breath as he entered, moving carefully through the oblivious throng. The cacophony reached up to the theatre's high beams, echoing outwards to fill the space with the happy noise of people enjoying themselves, and that was a good thing.

People brushed by him without a second glance. He paused for a moment, considering – then he moved to the snack vendor, figuring it was better to get that out of the way first. The line moved quickly, and the vendor took his money and handed him his order with no more than a smile and a glance. There were too many people to bother doing otherwise. Heartened by that, Kenshin took the lacquered box and picked his way carefully out of the lobby, looking for someplace quiet and out of the way. He'd be more likely to find Kaoru in a place like that. If she was still in the building at all.

There was a staircase leading off from the lobby that wasn't blocked off. Kenshin took it, and found that it led to a balcony wrapping around the back of the theatre. A few people were on it, chatting quietly and smoking pipes or western cigarettes. He walked along it, and – as he'd thought – found Kaoru at the very end, far from the loosely-grouped smokers. She was standing next to the railing, looking out over the rooftops with her arms crossed over her chest and her hands tucked into her sleeves.

"Did you need some fresh air?" he asked, putting on a smile. Kaoru started, turning with wide eyes that darkened when she saw him.

"Yes," she said. And then – her throat working as if it pained her to speak – "Is the act over already?"

"It is." He shifted the box of sweets, moving to stand not quite at her side. The sun was setting, staining the air with brilliant gold and orange. Lights were coming on across the city, spilling yellow into the streets like knocked-over ink. "You missed the big twist."

"I've heard this story before," she said absently.

"Oh." It wasn't exactly an invitation, but it was more than he'd gotten in months. Tentatively, he ventured a question. "Do you like it?"

"Not really." Her arms seemed to tighten around herself. "It's too horrible."

"What do you mean?"

"The way she comes back…" Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, staring blankly at the crimson line of the mountains as the sun lowered herself slowly to sleep. "Bothering him like that, when he'd moved on with his life. She's so _selfish!_"

It was very nearly a cry. Kenshin's breath caught tight with uncertainty.

"He could have been happy if she'd just left him alone! But she didn't. She couldn't let him go, couldn't let him live his own life. She had to keep coming back. Like she had any right to him. The dead should know better than to bother the living."

"But she loved him." The words came out before he'd quite thought them through, rising with the tide of nausea in his stomach. "She couldn't just let him go…"

He'd understood the maiden's feelings. Hadn't he also come back from a kind of death for someone he loved?

"She could have _tried_." Kaoru's head bowed as if under some terrible yoke. "If she really loved him, she would have wanted him to be happy, even if it couldn't be with her."

"How could he be happy without the person he loved?" Kenshin asked it quietly, too many words swelling incoherent in his tightening throat. "If he didn't want to see her again, wouldn't he have turned her away?"

"It doesn't matter!" Silk flurried in the fading sunlight. Kaoru slammed the heels of her hands against the railing, pushing away to face him. "She knew he loved her! She knew he wouldn't turn her away! She's selfish and horrible and cruel, and she destroys him because she doesn't have the strength to _let go!_"

Kenshin stared at her, the box of sweets clutched loosely in his numb fingers. Her eyes were wild, unseeing, and the blood-red of sunset gleamed in her black hair. For a moment they stood suspended on the brink of – _something_, some revelation – and he held himself perfectly still, afraid to fall. And more afraid of not falling.

Then she came back to herself.

"…I'm sorry." She tucked her hands back in her sleeves. "It's a good play. I just don't like the ending."

Before Kenshin could say anything more she was pushing past him and walking away, mumbling something about getting back before the next act started. He let her go, standing poleaxed in the gathering twilight. Whispers followed in her wake: there weren't a lot of people this far away from the stairs, but there were enough to have witnessed the confrontation. They looked at him strangely. He ignored them, focusing on the rising tide of panic in his pounding veins. On remembering to breathe: first one breath, then another. It was important not to hold them in. Important to keep letting the air out. Taking more in. Letting it out.

Carefully, he put down the box of sweets and turned to grip the railings, staring sightlessly out at the dying day. Trying to remember that this was _here_ and not _there_, that raised voices and angry words didn't mean that blows would follow – had _never_ meant that, not with her.

In time, his heart slowed. His shoulders sagged, tension easing away and leaving a dull, sallow grief behind.

_Selfish…_

Maybe he had been. Maybe he never should have come back. Maybe he had misunderstood.

Maybe it was for the best that she'd never gotten his last letter.

It hadn't been a hard conclusion to draw, just one he hadn't wanted to think about. He was, after all the person she avoided most. She would speak – a little – with Yahiko and Soujiro, with her students, with Tae or Dr. Oguni. But not him. Meaningless courtesies were all he ever got, when he'd been closer to her than any of them…

A closeness that she'd never wanted. Never chosen.

But it couldn't be him. Or it couldn't be _just_ him, because it wasn't as if she was all smiles and laughter when he wasn't around. Yahiko had told him as much, and Yahiko wouldn't lie about something like that, wouldn't feign that kind of worry, so that meant that it had to be more than just – his unwanted presence in her life –

But what if that was part of it? What _if_ he was the ghost, dragging her down and killing her slowly with memories of the past?

He remembered her crying. She had wept – so many nights, silently, in her sleep, while he watched unmoving from his place behind the screen. Not knowing what to make of it, not until afterwards, when he'd thought that she wept from grief for the broken world, for what had been done to him and countless others. And now…

Now he didn't know what to think.

Maybe it hadn't only been grief for the world-that-was, that she'd fought to change. Maybe it had been for herself, too, dragged more deeply into the war than she'd ever wanted to be.

Maybe she'd given too much of herself when she'd led him from the darkness. Left too much of her heart behind.

Maybe it was his fault, after all.

* * *

Yahiko knew that something was wrong when Kaoru came back and Kenshin didn't follow. He started to ask if she'd seen him, but before he could get more than a few words out the action on stage started up again and she had an excuse not to answer. So she didn't.

Onstage, the student's servants were meeting in frightened conclave, discussing the revelation. Yahiko watched for a moment, uncertain, and then excused himself. It was a little rude – he had to climb over a lot of people – but it was important, he justified inwardly, apologizing profusely and low at the row moving grumblingly out of his way. The servants argued, trapped in agonies of indecision that faded into so much dull background rumbling as he left the theatre, looking for Kenshin.

It took a while. The sun had slid well below the horizon by the time he ventured out onto the balcony and found Kenshin standing at the far end, his hands wrapped tight around the railings as he stared out at the darkening sky. The box of sweets sat at his feet, apparently forgotten.

"Hey," Yahiko said, for lack of anything else worth saying.

"Yahiko." Kenshin blinked, giving himself a small, sharp shake. "I'm sorry. Has the play started again already?"

"A while back." Yahiko jerked his head over his shoulder. "Probably better to wait for the next act, now."

"Oh." Kenshin's hands tightened on the rails. "Sorry."

"What for?" Yahiko rested his forearms on the railing, clasping his hands loosely together. Silence stretched for a moment between them, unspoken questions answered without words. Laughter rang from the restaurants and teahouses below them, nighttime revelers getting an early start while more sedate pleasure-seekers began to trickle home. The smell of meat and drink and too much perfume wafted up. Yahiko sneezed.

"Do you think…?" Kenshin start to say, and then stopped. Yahiko glanced over at him. The older man's face was strained. A muscle in his jaw twitched, as though he was grinding his teeth.

"Do I think what?"

"...Is it my fault?"

The words came out slowly, dripping like thick tar, and Yahiko closed his eyes for a moment. The stars glittered coldly through the haze of city smoke, far outshining the thin sliver of the just-risen moon. He studied them, searching for an answer, and couldn't find one.

He knew what Kenshin was asking, of course. He'd asked it himself a thousand times: _is it my fault? Is it someone else's?_ _Was there something we could have done?_

He'd never found an answer, though.

"I don't know," was all he said. All that he could say, in the end. Because only one person knew the answer to their questions, and she wasn't going to give it to them anytime soon. If she even knew it herself.

"For what it's worth, though," Yahiko continued, not bothering to feel the anger and worry and grief that sat under his heart like a cold stone, "I'm glad you're here."

"Thank you," Kenshin said, after a pause that was nearly too long. They stood together on the balcony until the rising chatter from inside indicated that the act had ended and another intermission had begun. The moon had climbed nearly a quarter-way up the arc of the sky, vanishing above the edge of the balcony's roof, and all they could see were the dim, cold stars.

* * *

It was the middle of the day, and the memorial park was quiet. Kaoru had been perched on her preferred rock at the lakeside for the better part of an hour now, thinking of nothing in particular. And certainly not of last night, and the disastrous conversation on the balcony where she had let too much slip, set free words that could not be taken back –

Kenshin's face hovered in her memory like an accusation. She closed her eyes and tilted her head towards the weak autumn sun, banishing the vision under the spots behind her eyes.

It wasn't his fault. He had come to her needing and she had given, because that was who she was, and it wasn't his _fault_ that she had failed to sever the bond between them. To set him free. That she had drawn him back like the demon-ghost in the play, over and over, distracting him with shades and shadows when he could have been moving forward and making a life of his own.

It wasn't his fault. It was hers. Always hers. She had taken the burden of his life on her shoulders and held it there for too long, and now she couldn't let it go. Couldn't let him go. Didn't dare accept what he was offering her – what she had no right to take – and couldn't bear to send him away. Not again.

Her fault. Her weakness.

"Come here often?"

She opened her eyes, startled. Yukishiro stood nearby, his hands tucked neatly in his pockets. He'd spoken lightly, almost flirtatiously – but there was that strange, brittle intensity in his eyes that told the easy courtesy for a lie.

"It's quiet here," she said, not certain what else to say. "Easy to think."

"Mind if I join you?" He nodded towards the ground near her rock. She bowed her head, not wanting his company but not knowing how to decline without unnecessary rudeness.

He settled himself beside her, bending one knee up against his chest. One hand braced against the ground at his side; the other rested idly under his chin, a finger tapping thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth as he studied her. She ignored his dissecting gaze as best she could, staring out over the shimmering lake. A handful of carp swam up and hovered in the water, their mouths opening and closing with greedy plops.

"They always want more, don't they?" Yukishiro said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't have anything for them." Kaoru shifted uneasily, her chest tightening at the sight of the demanding mouths, the vacant eyes. Scales glimmered under the murky waters, flashing red and white and summer-gold. Yukishiro rummaged in his pockets.

"A moment…"

Kaoru glanced over at him, surprised. There was a packet of rice balls in his gloved hand. He held them out to her, offering.

"I'm sorry?"

He shrugged.

"I like feeding them, too."

"…Thank you."

Kaoru took the rice balls, suddenly aware of how close her skin came to his as she did. She pulled her hand back quickly, picking idly at the wrapper until it was undone and shredding the first treat that her fingers touched.

"You didn't answer my question," Yukishiro said idly, looking out over the lake.

"What?" Her fingers ceased their movements, the tips sticky with sweet residue.

"Do you come here often?"

Kaoru blinked, covering her confusion by tossing a chunk of rice at the gape-mouthed fish. They swarmed it, tearing and battling for a scrap. He had expected an answer to that? She had thought it was only a courtesy…

"I suppose," she said at length, not sure that she wanted to be truthful and finding herself too tired to lie. "It's a good place to think."

"And do you have a great deal to think about, these days?" He nodded as he said it, as if something had been confirmed. And she hadn't even answered the question.

"I don't know." A spark of indignation made her shift uncomfortable. Who was he, to keep probing her like this? Didn't he have any manners? Couldn't he tell she was only being polite – or did he just not care?

"Ah." That strange, knowing smirk again. "That's something to think about, isn't it?"

"What is?" she snapped, the world coming into a strange kind of focus. He was _laughing_ at her. Not out loud, but she could see the humor in his eyes. How _dare_ he –

Yukishiro pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his smirk deepening.

"Whatever it is that you have to think about."

Kaoru glared.

"_If_ I had something to think about," she said, looking deliberately away from him, "I certainly wouldn't share it with someone I barely know. I come here to be _alone_."

Her heart throbbed in her chest, aching strangely. There was a kind of roaring in her ears, a stretching tingle in her skin. Like the air before a storm. She wasn't acting like herself –

"I'm sorry."

She stole a glance back at Yukishiro. He was standing now, brushing dirt off his knees.

"I didn't mean to intrude," he said, with a bow. "I can see that I was discourteous. Please accept my sincere apologies."

His white hair parted over the back of his neck as he bowed, revealing the pale skin there, and the first knob of his spine. Vulnerable –

_Red hair falling like fire over slender shoulders, shaking with fear as he knelt and she gripped her arms so tight that the skin bruised; she found her own fingermarks later, in the bath, ten perfect circles of blue-black blossoming on arms too weak to hold on – _

"Don't _do_ that!" she cried, not seeing Yukishiro at all. He looked up, startled.

"Pardon?"

She clutched at her collar, taking in a shaking breath.

"Don't bow that low. Please."

Yukishiro furrowed his brow, staring at her. Kaoru shuddered, bracing herself for the inevitable questions, for his careful withdrawal, for his _pity_.

Instead he straightened.

"It seems I can't help giving offense today," he said, ruefully. "Normally I'm much more charming."

"I scarcely believe _that_, given what you've done so far.," she tried to snap, and failed. So she crossed her arms over her chest instead and fixed him with her best stare, daring him to try and salvage the conversation.

"Perhaps you might give me the chance to prove myself?" He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smiling in a way that was a little too sharp, a touch too wide. Kaoru could have screamed – he just wasn't going to take the hint, was he?

"Why does it matter to you so much?" she demanded.

"I am sorry." There was real chagrin in his voice, but that too-sharp, too-wide smile never wavered. The blue fire burning behind his eyes flared. "I only – found myself curious, after our last meeting. I was… intrigued by what you said in that interview. To encounter you once was a coincidence, but twice seemed… an opportunity."

Coincidence. She nearly laughed. As if it had been coincidence that he came to this place with food for the fish, mirroring how he'd found her.

"An opportunity for what?" She'd meant it to come out arch and mocking. Her voice cracked halfway through. She cleared her throat. "I can't imagine why I'd be of interest to anyone."

"You would be surprised, Ms. Kamiya." Now his voice was grave; now his bright-burning eyes darkened, serious and focused. "Very surprised, I think."

To that, she had no response. The wind rose and tugged at their clothing with the scent of autumn, of burning leaves and roasted chestnuts and sacred pyres. The fish splashed at the edge of the water all glimmer-scaled and vacant, their mouths opening and closing as their dull eyes stared relentlessly at the world they had no part in.

"Your history is not unknown," he said finally, and there was no false flirtation in it, no smirking pleasure at his own cleverness. "And now, having met you, I find myself wondering what kind of person you truly are. That is all."

She didn't want to believe him.

Kaoru turned away, considering. A sincere question deserved a sincere answer, for all she didn't want to give it.

"If you want to know that," she said, keeping her chin high as befitted the daughter of samurai, "there's to be a tournament shortly. My school will be competing. There is no truer expression of myself than the values of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu."

Half a lie, and yet not: everything that he could possibly be interested would be there, carried on the wooden blades of her students. The only answer that mattered lived in the strain of muscle and the blaze of spirit. The _will to protect_ – the heart and soul of everything she had ever done. All that she had ever striven to be.

"Indeed." She didn't turn to face him, but she felt his eyes on her. "Then I'll be sure to attend."

"I hope to see you there," Kaoru said, with painful courtesy, and waited long minutes before turning as he walked away.


End file.
